


Avalanche

by thegoblincity



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, basically Flint is very sad so what's new, sad guilty wanking, sad wanking, set between 3x05 and 3x06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 23:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9792803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoblincity/pseuds/thegoblincity
Summary: “I have begun to long for you,I who have no greed;I have begun to ask for you,I who have no need. “The first time it happened, a wave of stinging guilt washed over him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was thinking and wondering about what would've happened the first time Flint let himself think about Silver //that way//... and this came out. 
> 
> Title and summary are from Leonard Cohen's song, _"Avalanche"_.

_“I have begun to long for you,_  
_I who have no greed;_  
_I have begun to ask for you,_  
_I who have no need. “_

 

The first time it happened, a wave of stinging guilt washed over him.  
As he stroked himself through his orgasm, his wheezing breaths muffled by the pillow, Flint was overwhelmed by shame.  
He jerked up and off the bed, a whimper escaping his lips, and marched to his desk, gripped the edge until his knuckles went white.  
This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to-- it _shouldn't_ have happened.  
The captain's cabin was shrouded in darkness, the only light in the room cast by the few oil lamps left to burn on deck.  
Flint poured himself a cup of rum and knocked it back in one go.  
He poured another one. 

After Thomas, he had lost most of his interest in sex. Of course, he kept sleeping with Miranda, but that was a form of mutual comfort, and it was a habit he had perpetrated for her sake rather than his own, anyway.  
They were partners, companions, and he owed it to her, to their bond, their history. It didn't feel like he was betraying Thomas, because they had shared him too.  
He knew. She knew. They both knew.  
But this. This was different.  
This was weakness.  
Black curls and wet lips flashed behind his eyelids. _Stop._  
A smirk. Sweat. _Stop. Stop._  
Flint dragged his heavy feet around the desk and slumped down on the armchair. He craned his neck backwards, kept going until he heard his joints crack.

-

The days he felt a real need for release were rare, even rarer were the ones he found himself equipped with the patience - and the privacy - to do something about it.  
Most times it was quick, rough, an annoying buzzing noise that needed to be quieted down, with perfunctory movements, until it was over. That was the routine.  
But sometimes, some nights - back when they used to regularly make port in Nassau (it seemed like a lifetime ago) - while the men were off to the brothel or drinking themselves into a stupor around a fire on the beach, he could lock the door on his room and be alone.  
Those nights, for an hour, for a few, sometimes until morning, he allowed himself to feel lonely.  
Like a ritual, he would let the memories back into his head, a fierce stream of longing and loss and frustration and _need_.  
He'd take his time unraveling the suffocating knot in his chest, cherishing its weight, slowly stroking himself to hardness as he lied on his bed, remembering.  
Thomas's smile, the sound of his laughter huffed in the crook of Flint's neck, the sweet smell of cologne on his wrists as he gently pulled Flint's hair, his whimpers - like a prayer - as Flint took his cock in his mouth, the bright light in his eyes while he shivered and came down Flint's throat.  
In bed, Thomas was gentle but firm, like in every other aspect of his life.  
He would kiss his way up Flint's neck while burying himself in him, and whisper praises in Flint's ear as he fucked him with a steady rhythm, one hand tangled in Flint's hair and the other one at his hip, his grip strong but not enough to leave bruises.  
Thomas never left marks on him.

In the stillness of the room, his fist wrapped around his cock and Thomas's name on his lips, Flint would play these images over and over in his head, and when he finally came, it was with a choked cry.  
The knot in his chest would then loosen its grip, as if bringing past memories back to life in his head somehow had the power to change the course of what had ultimately come next, and the present with it.  
When he woke up, though, the weight was back in its place, restless in the back of his mind.

-

The night was quiet. Flint could hear a few of the men talking and laughing down in the kitchen quarters, probably pouring themselves a mug of rum before they headed off to sleep.  
He turned his eyes to the bottle on his desk and picked it up again.  
According to De Groot, they were going to reach the island Teach and Vane had set camp on in two days' time.  
Flint knew his plan was the farthest thing from safe. Teach - fuck that bastard and his fossilized ideals - wasn't going to let Vane go without a fight: dialogue was a laughable option to even consider and so was any attempt to raise a mutiny among his men.  
Things were probably going to end in blood - Flint held no delusions about that - but there was no other way around it.  
If Vane decided to forget about their oath, Flint was going to have to convince him.  
_If Silver were here-_  
He pressed his mouth to the bottle and felt the burning sting of the liquor sloshing down his throat.

Silver had stayed behind with the Maroon people. The night before Flint's departure, he had come to him and assured him that the wisest choice would be for him to remain on the island and start smoothing the rough edges off their new, fragile alliance.  
He had sounded firm and confident in his reasons, and Flint had not objected. He knew - he had known for a while now - that Silver was in pain: it was clear from the way he dragged his boot and tried to muffle his laboured breathing, from the veil of sweat on his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes, from the shaking hand he kept pressing intermittently into his left thigh, just above the boot. Flint knew, and the weight on his chest tugged at him every time his eyes caught Silver's aborted movements, but he was also aware that Silver would not tolerate the shame of preferential treatment. Not from him.  
He needed Flint to not make excuses for him, to expect from him as much as he would have before his misfortune.  
Flint knew.  
He had let Silver shield his dignity with a sensible half-lie and he had gone after Vane without him.  
Given the uncertainty of what he was likely to face in a few hours, right now he was wondering if he would even see him again. 

Flint gulped down another mouthful of rum.  
His chest felt tight, tighter than usual, and he _hated_ that he couldn't pretend not to know the reason.  
He had been restless since the moment they had set sail from the Maroon island, his mind a constant buzz that made sleep near impossible.  
He feared sleep, anyway. After his last dream with Miranda his nights had been empty and devoid of memories, his rest disrupted by the slightest noise.  
_You are not al-_  
Flint slammed the bottle on the table, causing the whole desk to shake.

 _Gratitude_. That’s all this was.  
Gratitude and need for companionship were to blame for what had just happened.  
He was on his own, had been on his own for so long now that of course he had latched on to the first and most feeble sign of concern for his life. _Of course._  
Pathetic.  
The thought that someone—that _Silver_ might want him to live, the fact that he was alive right now in this moment because John _fucking_ Silver would have been bothered by his death—it had hit him like a kick in the ribs, knocked the breath out of his lungs and filled his head with smoke.  
He was ready to die and Silver had dragged him back from the edge with his perfect words and his perfect, knowing eyes. God, his _eyes_.  
That was why. That was why Flint had given in, let himself drift away, let himself _betray-_  
That was why, a handful of minutes earlier, soft blond hair and pricey cologne had been replaced by salt-crisp curls and a spiky wooden scent.  
Soft caresses and whispers had given way to rough shoves and hoarse, choked moans.  
Terrifyingly sharp eyes, flushed cheeks, sun-kissed skin glinting with sweat on the ship’s deck. Callous hands tracing courses on the maps on his desk, a lock of hair being carelessly tucked behind the ear.  
A bruising grip – so strong, so fucking strong, strong enough to _mark--_  
Flint had come fast and with a violent shudder, the weight of his straying thoughts collapsing on him like a wave of freezing water.

He slipped back into bed, the tension in his limbs causing him to shiver.  
_And yet for some reason, right now I’m bothered by it._  
He didn’t sleep.


End file.
